


It Gets Better

by loyalnerdwp



Category: Doctor Who, Sherlock (TV), Sherlock Holmes & Related Fandoms
Genre: Angst, Crossover, Crossover Pairings, Fluff, Gift Fic, M/M, Major Character Injury
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2012-09-19
Updated: 2012-09-19
Packaged: 2017-11-14 14:14:30
Rating: Not Rated
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 3
Words: 12,821
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/516084
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/loyalnerdwp/pseuds/loyalnerdwp
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>Written for pistazieneisprince on tumblr for the Johnlock Gift Exchange. The prompt is: “John is the Doctor, Sherlock tags along, some Doctor Who - Sherlock AU would be really appreciated. Oh and please throw in some fluff, I need more fluff in my life.”</p><p>Oh, I hope you like it. I hope you like it a lot. Some details about Time Lords and The Doctor's background are modified to fit John's story. I hope they fit right. I hope a lot right now!</p>
            </blockquote>





	1. Chapter 1

It's one of those odd days where the sun is shining and the sky is a kind of beautiful greyish-blue, there are hardly any clouds in sight, and you swear you can hear birds chirping over the sounds of busy London traffic. It's not common weather for an English day so you have to treasure it while you can, like it may never come around again. And who knows? Maybe it won't. Maybe after this day, perpetual clouds and gloom will cover the wonderfully busy city and, even without light pollution, you'll never see the stars again. In that case, the sun would be a foggy globe of hardly-lustrous light trying to break down the grey cover and shine down on the Earth. It would shout, it would cry for help, but of course it couldn’t break through, because if there's one thing the sun does, it's  _heat_. It heats the water, which then evaporates and creates the clouds. So, essentially, the sun would be separating itself from you. And, for a while, it wouldn't seem too bad; that  _is_  English weather, after all. You don't normally see sunny days. But then, after a couple of weeks, there would be reports elsewhere about cloud cover but no rain. And when the clock would strike seven months, people would finally start to realise that maybe the clouds wouldn’t ever go away, and those who hadn’t cherished their last sunny moment would have then started to feel an aching in their chest. Like all the happiness was sucked from their organs and their marrow and their very  _being_.

Now, suppose instead of spending your last sunny day outside, you were at work. Or at school, perhaps. Sleeping off a hangover. Sitting in front of a computer, as I am now, and documenting a story as another took place outside your door.

And, just maybe, you were trying to stop a small group of Anicorpus Shifters from multiplying, covering the sky, and taking over the human race, all in the dark and undiscovered third basement of a warehouse building.

Oi, don't look at me like that! It's possible!

Well... It's really only possible if you're a Time Lord.

And that, my friend, is what John Watson was. In fact, he was the very last one.

He went by The Doctor. It was a simple title, but titles were a gift on Gallifrey. His was chosen during the Last Great Time War, wherein his job was to help injured soldiers; to heal his brethren in battle who weren't hurt enough to regenerate. He liked his title, and once given one, that was what you went by. Simple as pudding.

Though when you think about it, and you try and decide on which pudding you're talking about, maybe it's not all that simple. For example, cake is pretty simple - a few key ingredients, half an hour in the oven, and bam! Delicious, flavourful, moist treat. But things like crème brûlée or chocolate mousse are a bit harder to put together, more difficult to cook and serve correctly.

For the longest time, The Doctor considered himself - not directly, of course - cake. Simple John Watson, army doctor. And a good one, too. One of the very best - and, oh, was he ever praised for it! He was given the title of The Doctor, after all. Err - well. He didn't consider himself much of one anymore. Multiple bad things - terrible things - went quite wrong after his title was placed upon him. The Daleks got stronger and mightier, and there were many, many more of them. A dangerous amount, if they weren't already. And fighting them got much more challenging and extremely overwhelming to the outnumbered Gallifreyan soldiers. More men and women were taken down, and there were an unforgivable amount that The Doctor couldn't save, or that were killed before they could regenerate. And The Doctor hated himself for it.

At some point during the war, The Doctor had been shot by a Dalek. And it was...  _horrible_. It felt like pure, raw electricity filling every cell and molecule in his body, like his veins were on fire, like his whole person was being held in a vat of molten rock. It was terrifying, traumatising, and damn near fatal, as every one of those shots were. And then there came the simultaneously body-ripping but somehow uplifting feeling of the Time Lords' regeneration process - all of his structure bursting and reforming into a new body; healed, but weak. The Doctor thought he might die then, writhing in the dirt of his home planet with a plethora of enemies surrounding him and his platoon. He could be shot again in any of those moments. And what good was he then, if he couldn't help his soldiers because he was completing the regeneration process, or worse, dead? The Doctor was moot if he couldn't do what he was designed for.

When his regeneration was complete, he felt energised. New and clean and jumpy. But it wouldn't last, and he knew it. He needed time for the entire process to finish, but... His soldiers – the people he had the occupation of healing – he couldn't leave them. And so he did possibly the most stupid, dangerous thing a newly regenerated Time Lord could do.

He got back up, and he started working again.                                                                                              

The Doctor could feel his body protesting. It showed, physically, in the form of occasional wafts of sparkling gold, gaseous material that emanated from his fingertips and forced its way out of his lungs. It hurt, more than anyone could imagine, but he continued on. He wouldn't rest. Some of his soldiers would try to make him, normally when a whimper escaped him at the same time as the golden life force.

His new body was deteriorating because of it. Dead centre in his left shoulder, where the Dalek's ray had hit him in his last body, evidence of the shot had started reappearing. It was a starburst scar, rather large, and – due to the electricity of the weapon – it had lit up all the veins down to the wrist of his left hand, and about halfway down his back and over his chest. The severity of the injury caused a tremor in his left hand - his dominant one - that made it increasingly difficult to work. The veins were a bright red that looked like twisting flower vines, and had the circumstances of the injury not been so dire, he may have considered them something unique and - dare I myself say - beautiful.

Instead, he regarded them as his downfall. He grew weaker and weaker every hour. How he managed to continue on for the grand and debilitating total of three weeks, give or take a day or so, was a mystery to even himself. Determination, maybe. However absolutely cheesy that might sound, The Doctor was a stubborn man. He had a task and that very thing kept him running.

After a point, somewhere around the fourteen hour mark of the fifth day of the third week, he passed out. It felt as though someone had hit him over the head with a metal pipe, kicked him in the stomach, and kneed him where it counted all at once.

When he woke up, someone told him he'd been out for a whole month, which caused him to lean over the side of the ratty hospital bed he was lying in and vomit all the fluid the IVs had put into his system. 

Once titles were given, they stuck. But after John had been given reports of everything that had happened in the war, he didn't want his. He didn't feel he deserved it in the least.

(Never mind, of course, that being nearly killed by a Dalek wasn't in any way his fault. Never mind that he was insanely loyal and...well, just generally insane. He blamed himself entirely for every soul lost and that was possibly doing more damage than the physical injuries.)

What happened afterwards was more than anything he could forgive himself for.

It was evident, distressingly so, that the Time Lords were losing. Their upper hand had been slapped away early on, and with The Doctor having been unavailable for such a long time, their troops were depleted. And he couldn't bear to watch any more of his people die.

To say it was a stupid decision was an understatement. It was a ridiculously and poorly thought through decision, and it was hastily and messily done. A time lock meant no time traveller could escape, but it also meant that the Daleks couldn't either. So he stole a TARDIS - punishable by death as of the second week of The Doctor's coma - and got out. He locked the planet. He thought he felt one of his hearts stop and wondered if maybe he would die after all. The TARDIS he'd stolen whirred in empathy and called him back to the controls, begging him to leave, to explore, so it could do what it was meant for even if The Doctor couldn't do what he was meant to anymore. He complied to his new home's wishes and limped back – because, sometime when he hadn’t been paying attention to himself, he'd developed a knot in his right leg that hurt ridiculously - to his new control panel and made a little promise. Just under his breath, as he ran his hands over the buttons and levers. A promise to keep the last bit of his planet safe. He forced his hand to steady before he pulled the first lever, and then began his journey. And so he and she set off wherever she wanted first to go. And that was all he needed then. He had to get out and he had to heal and he had to leave everything behind him.

Which all lead to how he found himself on Earth nearly (if you were to record time in a linear fashion) 1000 years later.

He was on his twelfth regeneration, and he could honestly say this one was not a favourite. It was a short build. 5'6", and his limp made him look smaller, in his opinion.

He had a cane that he used when he was out and about. It took only 30 years to accept that the limp wasn't all there. Or, his mind wasn't, rather. Psychosomatic. Whenever his adrenaline was pumping, the limp tottered off and waited for a good hour to come back. His shoulder still throbbed and an occasional shock went through it. He could  _feel_  where his veins were lit up like a map in comparison to the rest of him. It looked as though a plant had grown through his bloodstream, and the skin was slightly raised and a bit warmer to the touch than everywhere else.

This regeneration had short, sandy blond hair, and it reminded him of so long ago when he was back on Gallifrey because it was undeniably a soldier's cut. His eyes were a dark blue and his nose was larger than he liked. Whenever he caught a glimpse in a mirror, he scrunched it up in disapproval. This regeneration had frown lines and no laughter wrinkles by his eyes. He wore jumpers and blue jeans and a tattered coat and he looked very soft, and very defeated.

As much as he hated to admit it, John believed that this regeneration better represented everything inside his head than regenerations previous. This Doctor was the true Doctor, old and worn and just so tired.

So it was half-limping back to his TARDIS that The Doctor looked up at the sky and smiled at the blue that matched his eyes, hardly aware of slowly growing pain in his leg, one hand clutched around the head of his cane and the other around his Sonic Screwdriver. And he was glad that the sun would remain because the people here, the people he'd saved singlehandedly, needed it. And if they had it, his task had been worth it. 

He strolled leisurely through Trafalgar Square, admiring the way these people could interact without having to worry about being invaded. Not really knowing all of what was out there. Oh, the stories John could tell if someone asked. It had been a long time since his last companion. The loneliness was really only a constant reminder of what he couldn't do; he couldn't save anyone. His life was an endless circle of misery, conducting his guilt back at him from every angle.

He was just coming up to the door of his TARDIS, which had been sitting patiently in a less populated area of the Square, when a man came out from behind it with a compact magnifier, practically crawling about as he observed the wood.

"Er - what are you doing?" John questioned, shoving his screwdriver into his pocket.

"You can't just expect to drop a 1960's police box in the centre of London and have no one notice," the man said. His voice was lower than John had expected it to be and his tone was detached, as if he was disinterested in talking to John. In fact, he seemed entirely disinterested in anything but what was directly in front of him, and John quickly decided that he'd never met someone so entirely consumed and studious.

"I've done it before," John informed him. "And,  _technically_ , it's not strictly speaking in the centre."

The man jumped up with a swish of his black greatcoat and immediately moved forward like he was going to attack John. It triggered something in the old soldier’s head and he shifted his cane up quickly to brace it against the man's chest.

He was a good head taller than John - something that tweaked a nerve in his mind - with dark, curly hair and extremely lanky limbs. His face was all cheekbones and bushy brows and his eyes were something else. They reminded John of the galaxy, such vivid and gorgeous colours all mixed up together. He looked unhealthily pale, like he'd been ill and not left his house for months. And he dressed like a posh git.

The man looked him up and down, not making to move away. "Psychosomatic," he said simply.

"I'm aware," John responded without missing a beat. "Who are you?"

"Sherlock Holmes," the man said, finally stepping back. He held his hand out expectantly. "And yourself?"

John eyed Sherlock's hand apprehensively before bringing his cane down and reaching out to shake it firmly. "I'm The Doctor," he said.

" _The_  Doctor, not a doctor?" Sherlock inquired, letting his hand drop. "It's a title, then. What's your name?"

John blinked at the quick turn in the man's tone - it had gone from friendly to flat in seconds. "I go by The Doctor," he said, holding his chin up confidently. "You don't need to know any more."

Sherlock tilted his head and his eyes became completely analytical. Like he was a machine, built for the sole purpose of observing and processing. He snapped out of it a moment later. "This thing, this police box, it's yours, is it not? It's locked, and I've tried to pick it-"

"- you can pick locks? - "

"-with no success." Sherlock narrowed those eyes and the corner of his lips curled up. "It's not human. Not built by them, at least. Even a top government lock can be picked – trust me, I would know – so what is this? There's whirring inside as well, from what I could hear at the doorway. These boxes - even if it were human, and it clearly isn't - haven't been constructed in decades. The last was built in 1973. This is alien.  _You're_  alien; I could hear your heartbeat, coming so close to you before. That's irregular, too fast and too many beats in such a short time. Two hearts, is it, or three? Not to mention the tool I saw you put away - bit hasty for something you don't want to keep hidden, isn't it? Don't try to hide things from me, Doctor. You should know up front that it never works."

To say John was taken aback by such a quick observation was an understatement. He'd met geniuses before - brilliant, tortured people. This man was one. So quick, sharp - didn't hold back, either. Sherlock continued without letting John respond.

"Alien, then, but what are you doing here? Out for a little stroll? Come now, there has to be a reason." Sherlock paused and pursed his lips, looking John up and down again. John thought that maybe he was finally waiting for an answer, so he opened his mouth to speak, right as Sherlock went on to continue. "Stance, appearance, and reflexes indicate military. Cane, tremor, and nonexistent limp say ex-military under traumatic circumstances. Still doesn't explain why you're here, though. The tool you've hidden away suggests weapon, as does the - rather obvious - outline of a British Army Browning pistol stowed in the waistband of your trousers. You've picked that up here, then, haven't you? But what do you need it for?"

John had to snap his gaping mouth shut after the battering of little details and facts were shot at him in almost complete accuracy. "How did you do that?"

"Do what?"

"Tell me all of that - how did you know that?"

"I didn't know, I saw," Sherlock said, lip twitching with something akin to disgust. "You've not answered my question."

"Have a look inside?" John inquired instead of answering. "Curious person like you, I'm sure you’d get a kick out of it."

"What are you?"

"We can ask each other questions for hours and we won't get anywhere. I have all the time in the universe, Mr. Holmes."

Sherlock narrowed his eyes in obvious disbelief. "Sherlock," he said after a moment. "Call me Sherlock, please. I accept your offer, Doctor. In, then?" He gestured to the locked TARDIS and took a step away. John smirked and tightened his grip around the head of his cane, then snapped his fingers and watched what he assumed was a look of awe dawn on Sherlock's face.

"Go ahead," he said with a smile. Sherlock glanced at him with a grin that looked almost wicked and swept inside, not waiting for John to follow.

"It's bigger," Sherlock noted calmly as John hobbled in, shutting the door behind him. "Bigger inside, how is that possible?"

"It's a TARDIS," John informed him. "Grown on my home planet. Lots of...wibbly-wobbly intergalactic quantum physics talk that goes into explaining how this works."

"I am a genius, Doctor," Sherlock said with a scoff. He ran two spidery digits over a couple of the buttons on the control panel and leant over to look more closely. "I'm sure it wouldn't take very long for me to catch on."

"I'm not an intergalactic quantum physicist. I get the gist of it, yes, but I'm no expert. My title is 'Doctor,' after all. Don't tell me you haven't figured it out that far yet?" His tone turned teasing as he limped up the stairs to stand beside Sherlock.

"That part was simple," the man said distantly, looking with glistening eyes around the TARDIS. John could see how he was trying to control himself, to hide his excitement and fascination. "You've still not told me why you're here." He turned to face John with a look of expectancy.

John averted his eyes to the control panel and clenched his teeth as a shock passed through his torso. He huffed out a breath when the pain stopped reverberating through him. 

"I'm here because... what else can a washed-up army doctor with a time-and-space-travelling machine do?" he questioned almost bitterly. "The answer is, not much." John shook his head and pushed away from Sherlock, walking around to the other side of the control panel. "So! Sherlock - where do you want to go? Anywhere in time and space are your options. That is, of course, if you'd like to accompany me somewhere. But we both know the answer to  _that_  question."

Sherlock grinned and sauntered over to stand by John. "How could I say no?" he asked. "And how can I choose?"

"How about we let her take us for a spin?" John pressed a few buttons and sidestepped to pull a lever and twist a knob. "Hold tight. I'm not technically qualified to drive this thing."

Sherlock's eyes widened and he opened his mouth to ask what John meant, but as the TARDIS started whirring more loudly, a big jolt knocked him off kilter and threw him against the railing. The expression on his face widened into an exhilarated smile as he grabbed onto the rail and he and John both started laughing without intentions of stopping.


	2. Chapter 2

Chaos.

 _Organised_ chaos. Brilliant, arrogant, organised chaos. Chaos that is planned _just_ so that it rubs you exactly the wrong way and induces an argument, albeit a poorly thought-out one, conjured up in a fit of pique. And the organised chaos with his organised row also has an organised retort - put together in such a sequence so that he wins the argument and creates yet another, because the brilliant, arrogant, organised bastard loves to show off how easy it is to out-think you.

If you put organised chaos in a box that can travel through time and space, you get a brand new type of mess. You get organised chaos with an incredible talent for getting what he wants, when he wants, and where he wants.

Not only that, but the organised chaos then slips away within five minutes of exiting aforementioned box and proceeds to lose all organisation.

The organised chaos is now, simply, chaos.

Chaos in a time, planet, spaceship, alternate dimension - you name it - that is fresh and unexplored adds in a new factor.

You now have curious chaos.

Let's think about it in a mathematical way.

Organised Chaos + TARDIS = Chaos

Chaos + Unexplored Environment = Curious Chaos

Curious Chaos (unbridled genius) + x = Dangerous Chaos

(for 'x' you can substitute a multitude of things, but the most common of them are aliens, futuristic technology, clearly labelled ‘HARMFUL OBJECTS’, and practically anything that could even _possibly_ be a scientific implement in any way.)

As it turns out, not only is Dangerous Chaos a danger to himself, but to The Doctor and to natives of wherever or whenever they land as well.

Something else that happens to be true is that it turns out that The Doctor has never had more fun than with the man who is the most detrimental of chaoses.

To return to our mathematical explanation, Dangerous Chaos – as I'm sure most of you have figured out by now – is equal to Sherlock Holmes.

The first day Sherlock spent with The Doctor is what required the creation of the 'chaos' equation. The TARDIS landed in Ancient Greece, during the first Olympic Games. She had latched onto the buzz of renewed excitement and recognised a new potential companion, which meant someplace exciting, but not dangerous. Well, mostly not dangerous - if one was _careful_ in Olympia, there was only a slight chance of being roped into a potentially fatal situation. One thing John quickly discovered is that, whilst Sherlock was many things, he was not, in any way, careful. 'Careful', in the equation, was then replaced with 'curious'.

To sum a lot of things up, I'll let you know this simple but telling bit of information; centuries ago and still to this day, there is a Greek God who is very, very unhappy with Sherlock.

Their – oh, what shall we call it, _encounter_? – their encounter ended up with Sherlock on the receiving end of a nasty head injury, consisting majorly of a large laceration that branched from his temple about halfway across his forehead and a concussion.

I'm afraid that the story that comes along with it, whilst both humorous and adventurous, is to be told another time. Apologies.

After some heavy negotiation, John managed to convince said God to _not_ smite Sherlock, under the condition that they left, and soon. A bit of poking, prodding, and coaxing had Sherlockback on his feet – for the most part, anyway – and stumbling to the TARDIS. John escorted (though it was more like carrying at that point) Sherlock to the med room and had him sit while he searched for proper supplies. Sherlock tipped his head back against the wall and breathed through his mouth to try to get the nausea he was feeling to subside.

"Oi, head down," John said, walking back over with a small basket of supplies.

"Hurts," Sherlock replied simply. He brought his head down as commanded and looked at John. The Doctor leant forward to get a look at his eyes.

"Yeah, dilation's off," he muttered. "Definitely a concussion."

A sick look passed over Sherlock's expression and John quickly set down his supplies to grab the bin sitting next to the bench. He held it out to Sherlock but the other man put up a hand in refusal and shut his eyes tightly.

"'M'fine," he breathed, opening his eyes back up. John gave him a wary eye and set the bin down just to the side, then took a cloth and some alcohol from his basket to start dealing with Sherlock's battle wound.

"Figures you're the stubborn type - why do I always get the stubborn ones?" John grumbled absently. He dabbed around the cut, ignoring Sherlock's winces and sharp breaths.

"Welcomed another boarder before, have you?" Sherlock asked.

John scoffed in faux amusement. "Many before you, Sherlock Holmes, and none as troubling on the first day." He shook his head minutely and swapped out his cloth for a needle and suture, pointedly avoiding the displeased look Sherlock gave them. "They all run off - that's normal. I don't think I've ever had a companion who _didn't_ run off. But _you_ , look at you. First day and I'm stitching your face."

Sherlock chuckled drily. "Short tempered, those Gods," he muttered.

"Don't they teach you about that when you're in primary school?" John asked. "About Greek and Roman Gods and all those things they think are nothing but nonsense?"

"Well, if they did, I likely deleted it long ago," Sherlock said.

John furrowed his brow at the comment and stopped working to regard his patient. "Deleted it?" he questioned.

"I've no room for nonsense in my head, Doctor. It's my hard drive, and I need all that _really_ matters up there - nothing more."

John wanted to quip that _clearly_ it wasn't nonsense, but he just shook his head and continued stitching. "What _does_ matter, then?"

"Mm?"

"What's in your category of 'important'?"

"Anything that pertains to my work," Sherlock said.

"Oh?" John tied off the sutures and got out another cloth. "What do you do, then; what have you got up there?"

"I'm a consulting detective," Sherlock replied.

To his surprise, the words drew a blank in John's mind. "Never heard of it," he said with a tone that matched the arch of his brows.

"Makes sense; I invented the job." The smug look on Sherlock's face was nearly unbearable. "When the police are out of their depth - which is always - they consult me."

John chuckled quietly. "High sense of self-importance you've got there." He finished cleaning around the treated wound and picked up a gauze and tape.

Sherlock grinned. "It comes with being better than everyone else." And, despite himself, John smiled back at the bastard.

"How did you do all of that earlier?" he asked. "Figuring out - well, practically my life story."

"Simple. Look at the evidence, make a connection, puzzle everything together, and the result is the big picture," Sherlock answered. He furrowed his brow. "I never got a big picture for you."

John pursed his lips and turned away, carrying his supplies to a cupboard.

"What are you, Doctor?" Sherlock persisted.

"I'm a Time Lord," John finally replied after a bout of silence. He looked down at the counter and curled his trembling hand into a tight fist. He set down his supplies to put away later and took a deep breath before turning back to Sherlock. "We ought to get you set up; you should start nursing that concussion as soon as you can."

Sherlock eyed him a moment; it was an uncertain look, like he was torn between pursuing the subject and dropping it altogether. He went with the latter. "Will you be bringing me back?" he questioned slowly.

John paused.

Looking back over the day, it had taken under an hour for Sherlock to get himself into a situation in which he could be killed. He was a genius, he was quite clearly arrogant, and he was absolutely mad. The mix wasn't something that one would generally find oneself besotted with, but John felt his mind starting to cling to Sherlock's presence. And it had been far too long since he'd had someone along with him; he could feel what the endless quiet was doing to him.

"Have you got someone back home to take care of you?" John inquired nonchalantly. "Spouse; girlfriend? Boyfriend?"

"Tedious."

"No girlfriend, then?"

"Not really my area," Sherlock said with a bored tone.

John blinked in confusion, then breathed a little 'oh' and nodded. "You have a - a boyfriend, then?" he asked, then hurriedly tacked on, "which is fine, by the way."

"I know it's fine," Sherlock snapped back quickly. "And I said before, tedious."

"Course," John agreed. "Right, so. Well. The TARDIS has plenty of rooms. I mean - if you wanted to, you could stay. Heal up and travel for a bit."

Sherlock narrowed his eyes at The Doctor. "What happened to me being 'troubling'?"

John shrugged noncommittally. "Everyone has moments like that," he said (and would later find out that Sherlock did not simply have _a_ moment like that, but many). "Troubling and extraordinary make for an interesting personality."

Sherlock's expression morphed into one of surprise. "Extraordinary? Don't think you mentioned that one before."

"Well, what you did, the deductions, the...running off and nearly getting yourself killed... Bit spectacular."

"Do you think so?"

"Absolutely," John assured him. It was odd, how he acted like he didn't think it was logical that anyone would mention his brilliance after putting on such a show of self-confidence. "Why, do people not normally think that?"

"Not necessarily," Sherlock said warily.

John raised a brow. "What do they say, then?"

"They call me something along the lines of 'insufferable prick' and tell me to piss off."  
  
From his tone of voice, it was hard to tell whether Sherlock was joking or not; nonetheless, John smiled at him again. "I've met worse," he tried.

Sherlock finally seemed to reach a point of acceptance. "Very well," he said. "I suppose a bit of this wouldn't kill me."

John snorted at the comment. "I don't think you can say as much; look at yourself!"

"Doctor, are you trying to get me to stay or go?" Sherlock taunted.

John grinned. "You've already given me an answer; this is just compulsory teasing."

"Teasing or flirting?"

John's cheeks took on a light pink but he shook his head with a mad smile anyway. "You're absolute chaos, Sherlock Holmes."

"That isn't an answer," Sherlock pointed out.

"And you won't be getting one." John stepped forward and held a hand out to help Sherlock to his feet. "Come on - we have to go on a hunt for your lodgings."

"You're a mystery, Doctor," Sherlock said, using John's hand as leverage to stand.

"Isn't your job to solve mysteries?"

"Is that a challenge?" The two eyed one another; Sherlock loomed over John, using his height as an advantage. John stared up at him, noticing not the off-centred dilation of his eyes, but the colour of them - which was different from earlier - and the contours of his face, which were sharp and dark and threatening even with his unsteady swaying in place. He was semi-aware of the fact that Sherlock was still gripping his hand, but he was transfixed into silence.

Sherlock was the first to break the silence, right after dropping John's hand. "Your limp is gone," he said quietly.

"It'll be back," John informed him.

It didn't come back.

It was as simple as that. The Doctor's mental and physical health was always in better condition when he had a companion around - they helped him focus on something other than the guilt he constantly felt, or the hatred, or the anger. John thought that part of what made his shoulder ache was the flesh memory of culpability. His injury, in his mind, was associated with his enemy, and the war, and being incapable of helping. Whenever he felt that particular guilt, his body did too; hence the internal cattle prod and the aching leg. But when there was a companion around, he became occupied in doing his best to watch over them, and make sure they were safe. To entertain them, too, and teach them, though when he looked at Sherlock Holmes he wondered how much of the teaching he would actually be doing.

While Sherlock was given orders to rest up so they could get going again, John discovered the man's infatuation with new, shiny things. He didn't take to bed rest like he was instructed (John figured he should have seen that coming). Instead, he started wandering. The TARDIS showed him corridor after corridor, room after room; rooms for stargazing or map-making or sewing or dancing or whatever might normally tickle someone's fancy. He found the wardrobe room and the kitchen area, and the only locked room in the TARDIS, which he figured must have been The Doctor's.

After about five days, the effects of the concussion were nearly gone, but John insisted that they keep him in the TARDIS for another day, just to be safe; as a result of that, Sherlock finished his exploring and started experimenting. He found where small notches were created to open parts of the TARDIS's inner wiring, and he took an interest in the control panel. After being shouted at to _not_ touch the control panel, he switched focus to figuring out how the TARDIS did things like allow them to breathe when standing at the doorway and staring into endless space. He never did figure it out exactly.

Once John was sure the concussion had entirely worn off (and got tired of finding Sherlock god knows where and covered in wires), they set back off. Sherlock's first request was for John to show him something he'd never seen before, something that he'd find entirely unbelievable. It was very general and John had an endless list of ideas; but apparently, the TARDIS did, too, because she sent them spiralling opposite to John's directions. They ended up on a seemingly barren planet that turned out to be full of creatures that had made themselves bodies out of the rocky dirt. They weren't particularly friendly. Sherlock and John ended up slumped against the inside of the TARDIS door, breathing heavily and laughing at their luck (read: lack thereof) and brushing dust off of their trousers. Their limbs throbbed and Sherlock's head ached but the pair were ecstatic and excited, hearts pounding, and it was the happiest John had felt in years.

Time was a difficult thing to keep track of in the TARDIS. Things were often bustling and moving; the inhabitants got swept up in adventure and danger and couldn’t tell one day from the next. The Doctor could always tell how long it had been, though. He knew it like he knew there was blood coursing through his veins. The first linear week of Sherlock's companionship was easy - they all started out like this one. Everything was a big rush and constant running and laughing and shouting.

Week two was what brought on more... _Interesting_ character development. Sherlock didn't seem to really ever sleep. He wandered the corridors at night - which was just whenever John felt like he needed a rest - and was either with The Doctor or lying about in the morning. Nightmares plagued John, so he often found himself out late at night, or early in the morning, or whatever bloody time it was worst to be awake. The halls of the TARDIS were more familiar to him than the back of his hand, and he could easily traverse them half-blinded with sleep. He ran into Sherlock once, happily clad in a swanky dressing gown and some pyjamas he'd found in the wardrobe room, just walking around. He'd said he was thinking and couldn't take the time to sleep. John had been tired enough to just wave him off and go curl up under the control panel.

He remembered waking up around an hour later to a loud screeching sound and deciding that Sherlock had probably found a violin. John made a mental note to go take it away from him later before he fell back asleep to the humming of the TARDIS.

On day (approximately) three of week two, Sherlock stopped talking. John found him lying on the floor in a stargazing room, staring up at the open ceiling, dressing gown flung out around him. He couldn't be bothered to speak, move, or respond in the least. John had been worried at first; it surely wasn't normal behaviour (but, then, Sherlock wasn't a normal person) and he wondered if something had happened when he hadn't been watching him. The Doctor had sat down a safe five feet away and watched his companion nervously.

After a good hour, Sherlock muttered a simple, "I'm fine," to get John to relax. The Doctor finally figured he simply needed some time alone and went off to try and conjure up some food for them both.

(Side note: he also discovered Sherlock didn't find eating regularly necessary.)

In the early hours of day five of week two, John shuffled out of his room to nearly trip over Sherlock dozing comfortably outside his bedroom door. John gave a playful kick to Sherlock's leg and called him a git. Sherlock just smiled lazily and said something along the lines of "so sentimental, Doctor,” then fell asleep again. John found himself sitting on the floor once more, keeping a protective watch over his mad companion.

One day, John walked into the stargazing room - Sherlock had taken to lying around in there - and found him curled up, facing the wall, head in his hands. John was going to leave him be until he noticed that Sherlock was trembling all over.

"Sherlock?" he questioned softly. The trembling, if anything, increased just slightly.

The Doctor knelt down and leant over Sherlock to examine him, but before he could even touch him, Sherlock snapped a loud, "DON'T." He breathed in raggedly and curled tighter against the wall.

"Sherlock - "

"BE. _QUIET_ ," Sherlock enunciated. His face contracted into an expression of vague pain.

"Sherlock, what's wrong?" John asked in an undertone. "I can help."

"IT WON'T STOP," Sherlock yelled. "IT NEVER _STOPS_!"

John felt his hearts drop into his stomach when he realised what his companion was referring to. "When was the last time you - "

"I. Can’t." Sherlock's tone was angry now. He gripped his head tighter. "It’s not _quiet_ enough to sleep!”

"Let me help you," John pleaded softly.

Sherlock made a snarling sort of noise and kicked out of the foetal position onto his feet. He started pacing at a speed that was nearly a jog and ground his teeth together. "I _need_ the drugs," he hissed.

John's eyes went wide and he got up hurriedly to face his companion. "No - you don't need any drugs," he promised. "I can help you."

"YOU CAN'T DO ANYTHING!" Sherlock spat, turning on The Doctor and pushing into his personal space. "YOU CANNOT _STOP_ THIS!"

John swallowed hard and stumbled backwards a step, but kept his eye contact with Sherlock, whose eyes were hard and the coldest grey he had ever seen them. "You need to - "

"I need the drugs," Sherlock interrupted, voice strained and harsh.

"You need to listen to me!" John said sternly. His pressed a finger hard against Sherlock's sternum and glared up at him. "I can help you, Sherlock, I've seen this more than once. Just stand still for twenty seconds!"

Sherlock opened his mouth to respond bitterly but before he had the chance, John put a finger to his own lips and made a shushing noise, whereupon Sherlock found he couldn't speak.

"Better," John breathed. "Right, now, stay still."

He put his hands on either side of the detective's head and pulled him down until their foreheads were touching. He stared Sherlock square in the eyes and summoned up everything inside him to make the connection, and then that golden life force trickled from John's eyes and lips and met Sherlock’s. And then he was in; he could run through the twists and curves of Sherlock's rather extraordinary mind palace, see all the information that plagued him and how little it was in comparison to everything he had inside himself. He picked his way through Sherlock's head, avoiding personal files and childhood memories - he did have a sense of privacy - and taking out bits of information he was sure were absolutely useless. He could tell - they were covered in dust or tossed in corners, unused. Things he'd forgotten to delete or was going to, or had simply overheard and absorbed. John found the exact time and date he'd picked his companion up and left it; he'd need Sherlock to remember it when it came time to bring him back. The thought made his chest ache but he ignored it and moved on. After a good three minutes of tidying and tossing, John pulled out of Sherlock's mind with a sharp inhale, cutting off the connection between them.  
  
Sherlock's footing faltered and he stumbled forward against John, eyes clouded with vertigo. "What did you just do?" he gasped, clinging to The Doctor's shirt so he didn't fall over.

"Thought transfer," John rasped, grappling to keep Sherlock upright. He felt dizzy but it was likely nothing compared to what Sherlock felt. "I take it that it worked?"  
  
Sherlock steadied his breathing for a moment and made an attempt to blink the obstructions from his eyes. "It's calm," he said in a shaky tone. "Calmer, at least; it's just background noise again."  
  
John huffed in relief and gave up on trying to make Sherlock stand on his own, simply holding the other man to his chest to keep him from falling over. "Good," he sighed. "I told you I could help."  
  
"Thank you," Sherlock breathed, pressing his face into John's shoulder. John gazed at his companion and let his forehead rest on Sherlock's hair.  
  
"You're welcome," he muttered.  
  
There were so many odd quirks about Sherlock. He went through manic periods where he rushed around and shouted that he needed to get out, he needed to run and solve and think. His mind was tearing itself to pieces; John had seen it before, but he could hardly do anything for this companion, and it made his hearts pang. Then there were the times when his speaking would cease entirely, and he wouldn't eat or sleep or move very much at all. He'd disappear to the most secluded areas of the TARDIS and John simply learnt to let him sit in silence. When he was done, he'd find somewhere to sleep (often not his room) and then he'd tell John that he needed to go somewhere, so they'd go. He found a room in the TARDIS full of things he needed for experiments that he could do in his free time, along with a computer he could use to record them. He played the violin if he got bored whilst resting after a trip, which was alarmingly frequent, and he liked strolling through the shelves in the library, almost never taking the time to read anything, but absorbing the quiet and the smell of dust and old books. He would lie around and complain, expressing his boredom loudly. John would call him a twat and Sherlock would call him an idiot and they would argue until one of them broke and stormed out (most often John). At the end of the day, one would find the other and there would be an apology that never included the words 'I'm sorry' and things would be back to normal.

Of course, there were times when John felt like he was the only one in the TARDIS. Sherlock's violin would be silent and he'd be off exploring somewhere, or staring into the emptiness of space (he said that it helped him think). John would be back alone, just a madman with his box. He liked to curl up in the doorway of the TARDIS and stare out over the space he'd travelled, the planets he'd saved, the people who had likely long forgotten him. It could feel peaceful or nostalgic or a soother for anger at the man who could quickly go from chaotic to infuriating.

He found himself there one night after a particularly vivid nightmare. All shouts, agony, flashes of demonic, robotic voices and bright bursts of electricity. His waking cries had reverberated loudly and clearly throughout the halls of the TARDIS, and he was embarrassed, though Sherlock had figured out about his nightmares on the third night of the first week. John's whole torso was thrumming with the leftover effects of his injury and for the first time in three months, his leg ached like hell. He'd limped helplessly out into the foyer and plopped down in the entryway, heels of his palms digging into his eyes and flooding them with stars. His feet dangled in the safety pocket of space around the TARDIS that should have been freezing but was the same warm as inside. His dressing gown and t-shirt were stripped off and piled on the floor behind him, leaving his torso exposed and showing the entirety of his scar. It was glowing a dull gold with regenerative energy, hot to the touch, and was urging him to try again, even though the past regenerations had done nothing to clear the mark from his body. 

He settled with his elbows on his knees and his face in his hands, rubbing away stray tears that sprung up.

Ten minutes passed when a voice behind him said calmly, "That's new."

John jerked up and twisted around to grab his dressing gown, but it was useless by then. He'd been hiding his scar from Sherlock for the whole of the time he'd been around, and tonight was his first flare-up since he'd arrived. John had become greatly skilled at keeping it concealed over the years, but every now and again the heat that it emanated was too much to keep under his clothing. He just dropped the cloth back down and regarded Sherlock with weary eyes.

"When's the last time you even slept?" he demanded weakly.

"Yesterday," Sherlock said. He padded over and pulled one of the doors back further to sit next to John. They sat in quiet for a few minutes, staring out at the stars.

"It's a battle wound," Sherlock stated. John only nodded, flinching at the hot burst of electricity that wracked his torso. "Wounded in action," he continued. "One of the first things I noticed; but I never did get to see the product until now."

"Some things stay personal, Sherlock," John muttered. He ran a hand over his arm, fingers trailing over the familiar contours of the raised skin.

"What reason is there for it to stay hidden?" Sherlock inquired cluelessly. "I wouldn't call it a bodily imperfection, it's rather - "

"No," John said, "stop, it's not vanity."

"What then?"

John shook his head and scrubbed a hand over his forehead. "This... Bloody thing ruined my life," he murmured. "Had me out of service for a month, spent unconscious. Still bothers me one thousand years later."

"One thousand?"

John nodded again. "Time Lord, don’t you remember?" he questioned. "Or does that extraordinary mind of yours not work while you're concussed?"

"I remember," Sherlock said defensively. "I just wasn't sure what it entailed."

"And you, of all people, didn't ask?"

"Your reaction when I asked about it made it seem as though you wouldn't go into detail." Sherlock finally looked over at The Doctor.

"It's a touchy subject," John said, not meeting his companion's gaze.

"Why?"

"And yet he pursues it," John muttered. "Because, Sherlock, the Time Lords were an amazing race."

"Were."

"Were," John repeated quietly. "I'm the last one." His scar flared again and gave off more regenerative energy. "And it's my fault."

"Doctor, you're glowing," Sherlock stated.

"There's a first." John chuckled humourlessly. " _You_ , stating the obvious." Another shock burst through John's torso and he gave a pained cry, doubling over, gripping his arm and clenching his teeth.

Sherlock froze, staring at John with wide eyes. "Doctor?" he said warily.

"Fine," John managed. "I'm f-fine." He exhaled sharply and a cloud of gold puffed out of his mouth into the space before them.

"What's going on?" Sherlock inquired.

John sat back up shakily and curled his shaking hands into tight fists. "My body is trying to regenerate," he told Sherlock. "To tear every cell in me to pieces and form an entire new body."

Sherlock furrowed his brow. "Why don't you do it?"

"I've only got one left," John said. "Thirteen regenerations in a Time Lord's lifetime and I've used twelve. After the thirteenth, I age until that body is too old and gives out. Or until something kills me."

"You've died twelve times?" Sherlock asked.

"Almost died," John corrected. "What can I say? I have a lot of enemies.”

They lapsed into silence for a few more minutes.

"If the regeneration creates a whole new body, why is your scar still there?" Sherlock asked.

"My first regeneration failed," John explained. "After the first effects of it you're supposed to stay still in rest and let the process complete." He laughed mirthlessly. "How likely do you think it would be that I'd stop in the middle of battle to heal while I had a job to do?"

"And that led to the unconscious period," Sherlock deduced.

"Out cold in the middle of battle," John muttered.

"There must have been more than one doctor," Sherlock said. "How could it have possibly been your fault that you're the last one?"

The TARDIS whirred loudly and John ran his fingers absently along the door. "I ran away," he mumbled. "I stole a TARDIS and ran away. I placed a time lock on my planet and left them all, my people and our enemy, to burn."

"So that your enemy couldn't harm anyone else," Sherlock said. "And so that you wouldn't have to see any more of your people die."

"That's about it." The glowing in John's torso died off and left his scar and the flesh around it bright red.

"Would this be an appropriate time to give condolences?" Sherlock questioned. John chuckled quietly and shook his head.

"You're hopeless," he said with a smile.  
  
"You're an idiot," Sherlock returned.

"Git," John shot back.

"Moron," Sherlock taunted. John grinned wider and cuffed Sherlock lightly on the back of his head.

"I'll tie a rope around your ankle and toss you out of the TARDIS," he warned.

"You wouldn't dare try," Sherlock said with narrowed eyes.

"Wouldn't I?"

The two stared each other down, trying to hold back their smiles. Something in Sherlock's expression shifted and John could feel how close they were together, and that Sherlock was leaning closer still.

"Sherlock," he whispered faintly. Sherlock's lips were nearly touching his by the time he managed to pull away. "Sherlock, I - "

"Don't," Sherlock said quickly, pulling back to a comfortable distance. "I apologise, I wasn't thinking."

"No, Sherlock, it's not - "

"I don't normally lose control like - "

"Sherlock, do you ever shut up and _listen_?" John interrupted. "It's not how you think."  
  
"Isn't it?" Sherlock questioned emotionlessly.

"No, it's really not," John promised.

"What, then?" Sherlock prompted. His tone had gone cold.

"Sherlock, I'm over 1,000 years old," he said. "I've seen all my companions come and go. I've fallen for them before and they all leave in the end." His hearts throbbed at the painful memories of travelling alone after losing a companion, at the feeling of a cold wall under his hand and Rose on just the other side, but so far away. "I'll be alive long after you've come and gone and I can't do that to either of us. I can't do this again." He looked up at Sherlock and desperately wished for him to get it just this once.

"I understand," Sherlock said finally. "I'm sure it's just a passing phase. I'll be over this in a week's time. Forget it happened." He pulled his legs into the TARDIS and stood, curling his toes against the slightly chilled floor. "Good night, Doctor.”

John barely had time to say Sherlock's name before he’d swanned off down a hallway.

God, he'd done it now.


	3. Chapter 3

John woke late the next afternoon with a sore torso and a lightly throbbing head. His leg still ached and lying on the floor of the TARDIS had made his back stiff. He also felt emotionally distraught, but he was quite used to the feeling by that point.

He hadn't even begun to worry that anything along the lines of romance would be a problem with Sherlock. Most of his other companions had been another story, excluding a select few, but not _Sherlock_ , the man who found relationships tedious and had never once hinted toward the fact that he was taken with John. He who had said one evening that he was married to his work, that all he needed was stimulus to get through life, and that everything other than his mind was simply transport, unimportant. Did one even have to take a moment to decide it wouldn't become an issue?

It wasn't as though it was unrequited. God, no, of course not; because only someone who truly cared about Sherlock could be so tolerant of his moods – his banging about, the complaining and shouting and insults that were constantly thrown at the person in question. When he knew he was going to lose a row, he'd shoot a barrage of cunning deductions in the inevitable winner’s direction. His moral principles were practically non-existent. He disappeared at the worst of times and tried to disassemble pieces of the TARDIS when he was bored. He was lazy and loud and most of the time just entirely insufferable.

Despite his best efforts, some of Sherlock's more tolerable qualities popped up in John's mind. How he laughed until he couldn't breathe every time they were nearly killed. The way he could transition from what sounded like a dying animal's screeches to a fantastical classical piece on the violin. His mad smile and teases and untimely sarcasm. The way he reacted when something new was thrown his way (it was halfway between completely baffled and exuberantly curious).

John groaned at his thoughts and willed them to wither away and die. He'd become enamoured with Sherlock too quickly and he'd not even noticed that the other man had gotten caught up in the feeling as well. There wasn't a doubt that John would delve far past sanity if he tried pursuing something like this again. They were all just humans. None of them could hold out as long as The Doctor, and their departures were never short of painful and heartwrenching.

It took a good twenty minutes for John to conjure up the willpower to even sit up. He seriously contemplated just rolling onto his stomach and forgetting the universe around him, including the man stowed away somewhere in his TARDIS. In the end, he did get up, though his movements were robotic. He hefted himself to his feet, pulled his shirt and dressing gown on, and shuffled mournfully up the steps to the control panel, not minding the occasional stabbing pains in his leg. He leant against it tiredly and ran his hands in a caress over bits of the metal.

"This started out as just you and me," John muttered, resigned. "Running and travelling."

The TARDIS whirred softly and the lights flickered a warmer colour above him. "I went and ruined it for us, didn't I? Bringing others into this; and humans, of all things. Selfish, greedy creatures."

The humming lowered and the lights turned a dark shade of red.

"I do not!" John insisted. "I don't. Can't. Not again. He's going to leave, too. Even if he doesn't, and after last night..." He trailed off and shook his head. "Even if he doesn't, I'll have to witness something happening to him. Or his growing old and my... not."

The lights stayed as they were and John growled lowly.

"You're no help at all," he grumbled, turning away from the control panel. As he began walking down a hallway he could have sworn he heard a mechanical laugh.

The Doctor trudged through the corridors until he got to the kitchen and put the kettle on. In that moment, all was forgotten; tea was the sole purpose of John's entire being. Tea was the solution to everything. All he ever needed was a good brew. If he didn't make himself a good, strong cuppa, all his travels and accomplishments would amount to nothing. The idea brought a small smile to the corner of his lips and distracted him enough to put the Sherlock problem in a separate folder in his mind for the time being.

He sat down at the table with his mug and curled his fingers around the warm ceramic. Sherlock would probably be down in the observation deck, staring at the stars like he always did. _Thinking_. John wondered when he'd be confronted and asked to bring the detective home.

There was a deafening squeal of violin strings down the corridor that jolted John from his pondering. Normally, he would have shouted at his companion to keep it down but he didn't feel entitled to that privilege just then. The headache-inducing sound continued for a solid five minutes that left John with his fingers plugging his ears shut, and when it ceased, Sherlock padded happily into the room.

"Morning, Doctor," he greeted. He was cradling the violin with one hand and aimlessly waving his bow around with the other. "TARDIS floor do you well?"

John stared at him, eyes wide with incredulity. "Err - no worse than any other night," he said slowly.

"Oh, good," Sherlock replied. He opened the fridge with his bow hand and shut it a moment later, too short a time to have even bothered looking at its contents. "I need to get out. Been inside too long." He plopped into a chair across from John at the table. When he saw how The Doctor was gawking at him, he furrowed his brow in annoyance. "Why are you looking at me like that? Is there something on my face?"

John blinked quickly and shook his head, lifting his mug as a distraction. "No, nothing," he muttered against the rim. He took a quick sip and set it back down. "Just - err - well."

"Well?"

"Nothing, you've just..." John trailed off, staring at his seemingly confused companion. "Not to be rude," he tried again, "but why aren't you tossing things around and composing and having a tantrum?”

Sherlock rolled his eyes and sighed overdramatically. "Honestly, Doctor, I do _not_ have tantrums. Small, insolent children have tantrums."

"You are a small, insolent child," John deadpanned.

"Funny."

"Sherlock, I've seen you upset before. What are you keeping from me?" John asked.

"I'm _fine_ ," Sherlock groaned. "Nothing is wrong with me, nor have I done anything you'd disapprove of."

John looked over his companion uncertainly. "Let me see your eyes," he ordered.

"Oh, for god's sake!"

"Sherlock." John stared him down.

Sherlock glowered back at The Doctor, but finally huffed and leant over the tabletop. John held Sherlock's chin in his grasp and tilted his head down to get a look at his pupils. They were slightly larger than their usual dilation, but John suspected that had more to do with his own presence than any substance. He let go of his companion's face. To be safe, he also checked Sherlock's arms for any new pinpricks and took his pulse.

"Happy?" Sherlock questioned, tugging his sleeves back down to his wrists and slumping comfortably in his chair.

"Yeah, alright, you're clean," John agreed reluctantly, partially relieved but mostly still unsettled due to his companion's uncharacteristically perky mood. "What was the violin eardrum massacre about?"  
  
"I've been known to play saw against bone when I'm bored, and I started before you were even awake," Sherlock replied seamlessly.

"Why're you so... _cheery_ , then?"

"Is it not acceptable for me to wake up in a good mood now and again?"

"No," John replied immediately.

"Lovely," Sherlock muttered sarcastically.

"Not after storming off like you did last night," John revised.

Sherlock took a deep breath and sat up straight, setting his violin and bow down to steeple his fingers under his chin. "Listen," he said seriously. "I've been perfectly fine without anyone for my whole life. Yesterday was a dupe. I lied; I hadn't slept for four days before last night. I got caught up in this odd concept of having someone who actually manages to tolerate and enjoy my company and I was sleep deprived. Forget that it happened. I'm fine."

If anything, he surely looked fine. There was a calmness to his expression that was never present when he was keeping things subdued, and as John had said, he wasn't moping about or shooting things. There was a little voice in the back of his head that told him Sherlock was an excellent liar and actor, and that he shouldn't be trusted, but he desperately wanted to accept what his companion was saying.

"... Alright," John said. "I believe you."

"Thank you," Sherlock sighed, leaning back in his chair.

John nodded and drained the rest of his tea. "So," he resumed finally. "What did you have in mind for today?"

Sherlock grinned at him, and if John saw his companion's cheeks gain some colour, he didn't say anything.

\--

The fact of the matter was that the longer a companion stayed on with The Doctor, the more crushing their eventual separation became. That wasn’t to say that he didn't, to some degree, mourn the departure of everyone who stepped foot in the TARDIS; but, like a person making an acquaintance into their best friend, John grew attached to his companions. All their quirks and mannerisms became endearing to him. The Doctor's attachment also depended on how often the companion kept in contact with people at home and how frequent their visits back were.

Sherlock made no contact with anyone in his life back home, and since the night of the flare-up of John’s scar, they'd been travelling for nine more months.

There were a few varieties of companions that John subconsciously categorised.

Like most people, he was easily able to identify who would be a liable and loyal friend. All companions started out in this category. A lot remained in that category; it was a great category. They all were.

Some companions, though, pushed their way through a border into the category of 'family'.

And then there were the very sparse and so fantastic few who caught The Doctor's heart and tugged on its strings in just the right way.

If Sherlock had managed to get over whatever attraction he'd had for The Doctor, John couldn't say the same.

He was a nurturing being, and a compassionate one. Things he should have found annoying about Sherlock only made his heart swell and warm.

He wanted to smash his head against the wall, to be quite honest.

Sherlock had gone back to being himself. He hardly slept and didn't wake cheerily, he barely ate, and, unless they were outside the TARDIS, he was just as lethargic.

At the moment, however, they weren't in the TARDIS. They were pressed close together in the hollow of a tree trunk that was larger than a Californian Redwood, and they were trying not to get killed.

"Where did it go?" Sherlock whispered. He dared to poke his head around the edge of the trunk opening before John grabbed a handful of his coat and pulled him back.

"Don't show yourself!" John hissed. "We just spent ten minutes running to hide from it!"

"What _is_ it?!"

John darted his eyes away from Sherlock's and sniffed in a dignified way. "I'm not sure."

"How are we supposed to know how to keep ourselves from getting killed if we don't - "

There was a loud, strangled gurgling noise and a crash off to their right that shook the tree around them. John stumbled forward and bumped into Sherlock's chest.

"Bad news," he said in an undertone, steadying himself. "This tree's not gonna do us any good."

Sherlock looked around at their weak covering. "Decayed?"

"Dead a couple hundred years," John confirmed.

"Run?" Sherlock inquired.

"Now," John agreed. Sherlock took a deep breath and nodded before grabbing The Doctor's wrist and pulling him, hard and fast, from their cover in the tree.

The ground was springy with moss and lichens, and the air was thick and humid. Gigantic trees surrounded them in the swamp-like forest. Night was falling and the TARDIS had - err - disappeared, for lack of a less disheartening word. They'd been searching for it when their pursuer had shown up and been less than ecstatic about their presence. As far as John could tell, it was a native and primitive life form to this planet. Its size and strength, paired with the unpleasant noises it was making and its reaction to them meant it was probably unfriendly. And likely more than a bit deadly.

John tripped on a patch of wet soil as they ran, but Sherlock adjusted his grip to properly grasp his hand and pull him upright.

"Careful," he panted. "Tripping would be not good."

"Bit not good, yeah," John agreed breathlessly, trying to force his eyes to adjust to the near-darkness of their surroundings, and let go of Sherlock's hand.

There was another animalistic scream behind them and something whizzed by John's head.

"Oh, sh- _fuck_ , Sherlock," he rasped, "I might have an idea of what's chasing us!"

"Your tone isn't making me optimistic, Doctor!" Sherlock replied.

"Oh, good, then it's doing its job!" John twisted around, careful to keep his footing as they traversed their way through the swamp, and exhaled sharply. "Bad news," he said, turning back. "I was right."

"Shit!"

"Exactly - turn, turn, turn here!" John exclaimed. He shoved Sherlock to the right and pulled him down so he wouldn't smash his head into a massive tree branch.

"What - is it - ?" Sherlock questioned, words punctuated by ragged breaths.

"Venenum Lacerta," John told him. "Good news - is it's - practically mindless."

"Bad news is - ?"

"It makes up for that - by being one of the most poisonous - reptilian species in the universe," John said. Sherlock started to groan but another whizzing object passed them - this time by his head - and he let out a surprised cry.

"Are you hit?!" John asked hurriedly.

"Fine - it just surprised me!" Sherlock promised. "I take it - it can shoot the poison, too?"

"Excellent - deduction, Mr. Holmes!" John teased.

"Sherlock, please!" Sherlock said in return. John let out a breathless giggle and willed his legs to keep on as fast as they could.

"Left here - here!" John shouted, reaching out to tug Sherlock by his sleeve to the left.

There was a bit of complication.  
  
They ducked under another branch and were met on the other side by a second Venenum Lacerta. It was a disgusting-looking thing, around seven feet tall and a sickly greenish-grey (though the dark made it hard to tell). It was a stockier-shaped creature that had the ability to stand on its hind legs, but moved on all fours when it was going at great speeds. Fingers and toes were replaced with poison-filled, five-inch long talons, and it had a small mandibular shelf, so its upper layer of intimidating fangs hung over the lower ones.

The moment he saw the creature, John started pulling his wide-eyed companion back under the branch, but before he could manage to get him safely out of the way, the Lacerta bounded and reached out, scratching four long, deep cuts into Sherlock's chest. He cried out in pain and fell backwards into the underbrush.

Within seconds, John had the gun he kept in his waistband out and shot the Lacerta square through the head, effectively killing it. He looked down at Sherlock and quickly ducked back under the branch to take care of the remaining Lacerta. There were two shots and then he'd dropped his gun and scrambled back to his companion's side.

His eyes widened and his breath quickened when he saw Sherlock's condition. The lacerations were bleeding heavily and already the poison had started to decay the skin around them.

"Christ- oh, god, Sherlock," John choked out, kneeling beside him.

Sherlock blinked disorientedly. "I'm going to die," he stated calmly. He looked up at John with empty eyes.

John pressed his lips into a thin line and swallowed hard. "I'm so sorry," he whispered.

Sherlock looked back up at the foliage-covered sky and squinted. "How long?"

"Not very." John followed Sherlock's eyes upward.

There was a moment of silence.

"I think, maybe, we should have gone right," Sherlock suggested. John pulled his gaze downward to his companion and stared until Sherlock met his eyes. They both smiled and started laughing breathlessly until Sherlock started coughing and the bleeding increased. John took his hand and grasped it tightly.

"I'm about a year late, but I never did catch your name," Sherlock mumbled hopefully. His hand trembled in John's.

"It's John," John said without hesitation. "John Watson."  
  
Sherlock gasped and brought his free hand up to clutch at his side. "I think - I like that, John," he managed. He breathed unevenly for a moment before forcing himself to keep going. "D'you remember, on that first day - in the med room - and I said I didn't have a big picture for you yet."

John's eyes watered and he held Sherlock's hand tighter. "Don't," he pleaded.

"I've got one now," Sherlock continued.

"Sherlock," John pleaded.

"I love you," Sherlock mumbled. "John Watson."

John clenched his teeth and willed his tears to remain behind his eyelids. “I love you, too, you great stupid git,” he said, unable to keep his voice from breaking.

“Idiot,” Sherlock breathed.

“Moron,” John murmured. Sherlock smiled sadly at him and exhaled shakily.

“Hurts,” he whispered.

“I know,” John said.

Sherlock closed his eyes and squeezed John’s hand with all of his remaining strength. The pressure stopped and John’s breath caught in his throat.

“Sherlock,” he said.

“Fuck,” he choked.

“ _No_ ,” he pleaded to nothing. A sob shook his chest.

 “God dammit, not this one, please. Please _, fuck_ , Sherlock, not this one!” he shouted at nothing. The tears, stinging his eyes, finally escaped and drew wet lines over his cheeks, catching on his lips and falling onto his trousers. He bent over and slipped a hand behind Sherlock’s head, propping it up and using his other hand to brush his companion’s windswept curls out of his face.

John choked on another sob and pressed his forehead to Sherlock’s chest.

_Every time. All of them. Something_ _always_ _happened to them and it was always his doing._

John breathed in Sherlock’s scent; sweat and chemicals and tobacco, spoilt by the putrid smell of his blood and the poisoned flesh. He could feel his scar heating to the point of burning, his body thrumming with energy and grief and pain. And all he could think was _now is not the right time._

Something fantastic about a Time Lord’s body is that their senses are heightened. Truly amazing sense of sight, smell, touch, taste, and hearing.

And John, along with smelling Sherlock’s blood and his flesh and seeing his broken form all-too-clearly and cradling his head, could _just_ make out a sound. He froze, tears still falling, face still buried in his companion’s chest, and he listened. Then, he pressed his ear over Sherlock’s heart and he strained to not just listen but truly _hear._

And what he could hear was that wonderful human heart, still fighting and working to the end. Which meant that that wonderful human brain was still struggling, and still trying, and John finally understood that his body wasn’t trying to heal himself.

“Please, oh fuck, please,” John begged, hurriedly lifting his head from Sherlock’s chest. He frantically pulled Sherlock’s upper body into his lap and shakily cradled his head again. “ _Please_.”

Before the heat became too much to bear, and before he was too late, John leant down and pressed his lips forcefully against Sherlock’s and squeezed his eyes shut tight.

Regeneration was a painful process, but because it was done while a Time Lord was on the brink of death, thoughts of pain were normally covered up by panicked ones asking _what the motherfucking shit is happening to my everything?!_

Under special circumstances, this wasn’t the case. Under special circumstances, a Time Lord wasn’t teasing death. John, specifically, wasn’t teasing death. So, when he felt all of his pent up energy burst forward and out of his body, he wanted to scream. But he kept his lips in contact with Sherlock’s, and he hoped silently over and over again for it to please, just work. God, please.

The forest around them was teeming with golden light, swimming in tendrils around the pair on the ground. It danced through the air like it had been released without a purpose, and twisted around the massive trees. It was only moments before John could feel Sherlock’s chest start to rise and fall again. He felt the deadly wounds scab over and heal in seconds. Sherlock coughed against John’s lips and his hands twitched about until they found a secure hold on his jumper.

The remains of the energy surged forward and diffused through Sherlock’s skin, leaving the two in the dark.

“It worked,” John whispered happily.

“John,” Sherlock sputtered between coughs. “I was dead.”

“You’re not dead,” John cried, face breaking into a wide grin.

“You-“

“Regeneration,” he explained, reaching up to wipe away the tears on his face. “I gave you the energy to live.”

“You used up your last regeneration,” Sherlock breathed.

“I honestly don’t care.” John laughed and pulled Sherlock into a sitting position. “I’m practically just a human with two hearts now, how bloody _mad_  is that?!”

“You gave me your last regeneration,” Sherlock repeated, bewildered.

“Oi, I told you I love you,” John said, rolling his eyes. “Don’t act so surprised.”

“Human.”

“Nearly!”

Sherlock smiled. “Think that means I’m allowed to do this now,” he said, and reached up a hand to tangle his fingers in John’s hair and pull him into a kiss.

\--

The TARDIS landed, inconspicuous, on the corner of Baker Street.

As inconspicuous as a police box in the wrong century could be, at least.

When it came to human beings, she was hardly noticed anyhow.

Two men stepped out, feet touching pavement that was only half an hour more worn down than when they’d first left London so long ago. John told Sherlock to go ahead and pulled a key from his pocket to lock the doors.

“I’ll be back soon,” he promised, patting the side of the box. He jogged down the block to door 221B and let himself in. There was a gruff, loud voice from upstairs and a cutting remark from Sherlock.

“I’ve _told_ you before that you can’t simply run off with the evidence and expect us to let you get away with it!”

“I’ve proven to you before that I’m not just going to _run off_ with the evidence without coming back to boast to you how easily I found it!”

“Sherlock, we don’t need your – oh, hello.”

John stepped into the sitting room with a raised brow, scanning the disorganised mess that Sherlock called his flat.

“Hello?”

“What? Oh,” John said, shaking himself. “Ah, hi. Sorry, I was just – “

“It’s no matter,” Sherlock interrupted. “John, this is Detective Inspector Lestrade of London’s _Finest_ , though considering the way they perform I certainly wouldn’t choose that word to describe them.” Lestrade glared coldly at him and huffed.

“Don’t know how you got mixed in with this bloke, but I hope you know what you’re dealing with,” Lestrade said. He held out a hand and John took it firmly.

“I’ve got a good idea of it,” John said with a smile.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Oh, god, I made myself cry, look at that. I owe a thousand thanks to my amazing beta, [Di](http://thegirlwithmanynames.tumblr.com/), who stayed up until two in the morning her time to finish this last chapter so I could have it done on time and afhosdig. She made this as perfect as my writing could ever be.


End file.
